


When did we fall Apart?

by NoLogicInYourSadness



Series: When did we fall Apart? [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Broken Sherlock, Brotherly Love, Dead Parents, Gen, Kidlock, Kidnapping, Murder, Orphanage, Orphans, Platonic Relationship, Prodigy, Protective Mycroft, Sibling Rivalry, Swearing, Teenlock, violin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:57:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoLogicInYourSadness/pseuds/NoLogicInYourSadness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Mycroft end up in a orphanage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The discordant sound of Sherlock’s violin coming from the rooftop was infuriating. Every time he tried to have a decent conversation with his insolent little brother, he would run off and pick up that goddamned instrument of his and, ignoring the rest of the world, go and sit on the edge of the science block roof as though he was this- this- innocent broken soul. Mycroft couldn’t stand it anymore. His little twat of a brother was too self centered to even converse with the other children. 

Sherlock sat there, his legs dangling off the ledge. His lifeless eyes boring into the dull grey sky, the violin lay broken beyond repair in his lap. His pale, cold fingers stroked the splintered pieces of wood. Cold, post- winter raindrops began to plummet from the forlorn sky. He hugged his knees to his chest and let the melancholic rain wash over him, fighting back tears.

‘Get down from there you ignorant uncaring brat! You’ll catch a cold! Sherlock did not reply, sitting there sullenly through the wintry cold, partially because he could not bear to face the world, partially because Mycroft’s conscience needed a solid attack, and partially- partially- because he wanted Mycroft to prove he cared.


	2. You'd better know what you're fighting for

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A funeral, Two young boys, A yellow blouse, And a name plate polished to perfection.

Two young boys, dressed in funeral black stood side by side solemnly. Mycroft gripped on to Sherlock’s hand tightly. A small over used black nissan pulled over, and a short brunette stepped out. She was wearing a short brown pencil skirt with a revealing yellow blouse. Her hair was short and damaged at the ends, and had a very obvious dyed quality to it, which made her look like an aged potato.

“Hi, I’m Samantha, and I‘ll be taking care of you kids!” her voice had a patronising tone to it. They clambered into her compact car that smelt of cheap perfume. 

“I know you two have been through a lot, and I’ll be here to help you settle in! I’ll be taking you to see a nice man who will also be helping you.”

After receiving no reply, she sighed and set off. The brothers stared at each other.

Mycroft tapped out a message to Sherlock:  
.. / -.. --- -. .----. - / - .-. ..- ... - / .... . .-.  
“I don’t trust her.”

Samantha broke the awkward silence:“ You two seem to be shy. Don’t be scared. I’m only here to help, okay?”

“C’mon, say something. There’s no need to be afraid.”  
“Fuck you.”  
“Excuse me?”  
“Judging by the state of obviously dyed, chemically-treated hair, you attempted a ‘high-end’ career, likely one that required skills in communication and demanded respect. Law, am I correct? That leaves the question of how you ended up having to take care of children, which, paralleled with cheap bargain clothing and lack of mannerisms suggests that you grew up in a abusive environment, and you thought this equipped you to handle what you like to call “children in crisis”, as stated in that pink folder you are carrying in your handbag, which, if I may add, is the most unsightly thing I have seen in my life.”

The next few minutes of the drive was utterly silent, punctuated only by Samantha glancing up into the rear view mirror, only to quickly shift her gaze when her eyes met the sight of Mycroft glaring at her, embracing his younger brother tightly.

After some time, the light, barely audible tapping resumed  
-.-. .- -. / -.-- --- ..- / - . .- -.-. .... / -- . / - --- / -.. --- / - .... .- - ..--..  
“Can you teach me to do that?”  
\--- ..-. / -.-. --- ..- .-. ... .  
“Of course.”

Sherlock looked at his Mycroft and smiled, the bright grin of a four year old that had not yet realised that his parents were dead, and Mycroft smiled back, the sad smile of a protective older brother.

They pulled over at a disgustingly linear building. Samantha got out and promptly slammed the door behind her. Sherlock grinned at Mycroft, who shrugged nonchalantly back. After slowly clambering out of the Nissan, they followed the yellow blouse (no-one; simply no-one would wear something quite as hideous as that) into an elevator, which took them to the third floor.

They stepped onto the 5th floor, Samantha's shoes clicked with every step. She promptly knocked on the door labelled with a name-plaque polished to perfection, announcing proudly, boastfully, “Dr. Tom”.  
“Come in”  
The door clicked open, and there sat a fat man wearing a business suit, definitely 2 sizes too small, with a large pot of coffee in his plump hands. He looked up, showing unmissable contempt for the two boys.  
“I guess I’ll leave you to it then”  
The obnoxious man nodded placing the mug slightly to the right of an ugly coffee stain, creating yet another stain. Mycroft and Sherlock invited themselves onto the large couch behind the coffee table, which, in it’s placement, obscured the young Sherlock entirely from the view of this Dr. Tom.  
“Hello Mycroft, Sherlock. You two probably know that we are trying very hard to find a suitable orphanage for you.”  
With questioning eyes, Sherlock turned to Mycroft, and he, expressionless, ignored Sherlock, giving Dr. Tom a curt nod.  
A woman walked in, peering curiously at the two young boys, then walked towards the obese man, pecking him on the cheek.  
“Would you like me to buy pizza for you dear? And ice- cream...”  
His wife. Disgusting.  
She walked back out, closing the door behind her.  
“As I was saying, I’m afraid we can’t arrange for you two to stay in the same orphanage. You will still be able to visit each other once a month. You are still young, and will eventually forget about each other. There won’t be any way for you two to be adopted by the same person.”

Mycroft was fuming. Perhaps he should just leave the deducing to his little brother.  
... .... . .-. .-.. --- -.-. -.- --..-- / .-- .... .- - / -.. --- / -.-- --- ..- / -. --- - .. -.-. . / .- -... --- ..- - / - .... . / .-- .- -.-- / - .... .- - / -- .- -. / --- .-. --. .- -. .. ... . ... / .... .. ... / -.. . ... -.- ..--.. / .-.. --- --- -.- / -.-. .-.. --- ... . .-.. -.-- .-.-.-  
“Sherlock, what do you notice about the way that man organises his desk? Look closely.”

After a momentary pause, the four year old’s eyes widened, and his tiny hands reached for the lawyer’s handphone, which was lying on the desk.  
“Sherlock Holmes, put down the phone.”  
He glared at the young boy, evidently exercising much self-control.

Mycroft drew Dr. Tom’s attention away from Sherlock, boring into his skull with his entrancing blue-grey eyes, beginning to quote: “ Brothers and sisters provide emotional support, comfort, and a sense of stability, belonging, and continuity. They may serve as allies, confidants, companions, and sources of love. Siblings also play a crucial role in the development of one’s identity and self-esteem. According to leading researchers on the sibling bond: Sibling relationships validate the child’s fundamental worth as a human being [and] produce hope and motivation. Many interviews with youth who are in or who have experienced the foster care system indicate that children usually want to be placed with their siblings, and when separated, to maintain frequent visits and to receive information about their siblings.One of the most common positive outcomes cited as associated with joint placement is greater placement stability, meaning that children who are placed with their siblings tend to experience fewer disruptions in their placements.”

As Mycroft finished, Sherlock stood up so that he was visible from behind the coffee table:

“Are you having an affair?” the tone of his voice was so innocent, the lilt and cadence so much like that of a typical four year old, the statement sounding simple to the point where Sherlock could have just as easily asked for some candy, and it would have sounded more or less the same.

Dr. Tom gaped at the two boys, the younger smiling back ever so innocently and the older Mycroft holding back his laughter, laughter that seemed all the more hesitant; hesitant because he was, despite his genius he was, after all, eleven years old and left suddenly to care for his four year old brother, hesitant because suddenly in a strange twist of the mind Mycroft felt like crying for the first time in a very long time, and as he stopped laughing, the room lapsed into silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated!


	3. Keep your head down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys arrive at their new home.

\---------  
“But you don’t see! They have to be together. The young boy is a genius! A prodigy!”  
“Yes, doctor Tom, and what proof do you have?”  
“They refuse to be apart, and it would not benefit them to be separate, I- you should hear the case the boy makes for them to remain together.”  
“We simply cannot take a boy of four years, we are an institution, not a boys home.”  
“Please, sir, at least see the child, I promise you will not be disappointed.”

*****

Mycroft and Sherlock stared at the large melancholic building which would serve as a home for many years. They stepped cautiously into the orphanage, and dumped the many bags on to the floor, in the middle of a poorly furnished living room, if you could even call it that. The ‘house’ was part of something larger, a boarding school, and the orphanage was part of it.  
Kids ran about screaming and shouting, making a mess out of everything. Sherlock tugged at Mycroft’s sleeve.  
“They’re idiots! The whole lot!”  
Mycroft glared at him, trying to get Sherlock to shut up. They needed to make a good impression.

“Well, hello there, you two must be the new boys. Mycroft and Sherlock, am I correct?”  
Mycroft nodded sweetly, and Ms. Hudson ushered them to their new rooms. Apparently, they would be sharing a room with two other boys, whose names were Greg and Phillip (although he insisted on being called Anderson). The two boys busied themselves unpacking the few things they had, pulling things out of a black duffle bag with broken straps.

The door opened abruptly, and the two boys they would eventually befriend stumbled in, discussing loudly to each other, engrossed in an odd yet fascinating conversation about genetics: The younger boy, Phillip, wasn’t exactly grasping the concept. They lapsed into silence, having noticed that one of their new roommates was surprisingly young. 

“Mycroft.” the older boy extended his hand for a handshake.   
Greg shook it with unexpected friendliness and a grin on his face, while Phillip simply stared at the skull sitting on his bed, too shocked at all that had just happened to react.

By which time they had dropped off their belongings in their new room, it was dinnertime and the boys headed down to the dining hall, Mycroft pushing open the doors into the dining hall, followed by Sherlock, staying behind him with a frown on his face as if trying to shield himself from all the stupidity. 

The alarm bleeped, an angry siren desperate to wake up deep sleepers. Phillip - no, Anderson, groaned and shouted abuse at the little machine, which was battered and had no doubt been dropped countless times, or perhaps thrown. Sherlock smiled at his groans, having been up for hours exploring the building and, well, other unspecified things; under the guidance of Mycroft. He then changed into a huge baggy uniform that made him look even smaller and skinnier than he already looked. The bell signalling the start of class had rung almost a half hour ago, and they walked in on their English teacher lecturing the students about punctuality. They stared at her awkwardly, attempting to make the whole situation seem less ironic, but she only glared at them, and coughed, continuing to speak. Sherlock, with a glance at Mycroft, followed him in his confident strides and took the desk to the left of Mycroft in the back row, Mycroft plonking his school bag onto the desk with a confident air and Sherlock copying him, in his best imitation of maturity and assertiveness. By this point, the teacher had lost all attention of her students; they simply gaped at the toddler that had just entered their class. 

\-----------------------

“The answer, so obviously is that the writer was trying to express his hatred for homophobia, through his choice of language, and the cleverly linked metaphors. The writer was an aged man, with a son who had been bullied for being gay. His son later committed suicide, due to the unaccepting society, which led him to writing short stories, implying the wickedness of humanity.”

Sherlock sneaked a look at Mycroft, who smiled at Sherlock, proud of his younger brother, but their English teacher frowned, and pretended that Sherlock had said nothing. 

They walked down the corridor, proceeding to find their next class, science. Nobody was willing to talk to either of the boys, and the teacher looked at them disapprovingly, wondering what had made them the outcasts. After the safety briefing (an explanation of safety rules thrust upon the students of the school each year which Sherlock and Mycroft had no intention of following), they were given tasks, and instructions to follow, which they promptly ignored. They were tasked that day with creating copper sulphate by reacting copper oxide and sulphuric acid Unlike the other students who never followed instructions and managed to burn all their hair, these two boys were always fooling around, yet seemed to know what they were doing. Instead of putting an end to all this odd behavior, she watched them carefully, wondering what they would be capable of doing. 

The boys had blatantly disobeyed just about every single rule they had just been told, from simply not wearing safety goggles to the older boy nearly pouring acid into his brother’s eyes as a joke, but in the end, the boys had created an interestingly beautiful crystal design that fully covered the inside of the evaporating basin.

The experiment was wrapped up, and the science teacher rounded the boys up, taking them through the creation of different salts, and all the while Mycroft watched Sherlock as he listened intently, reasonably happily, to their science teacher.

At lunch, Mycroft grabbed two plates, one for himself and one for Sherlock, grabbing different kinds of food and dumping them onto both plates, handing one to Sherlock who was too short to even see, let alone reach the food trays. They plonked themselves down on a table in the corner of the cafeteria, and were later joined by a cautious Greg.   
“Oh, hey Gavin!”  
“My name isn’t… Gavin”  
“Hm.”  
Sherlock wasn’t listening. He was engrossed in watching the acid he had stolen from their science classroom eating away at his food.   
Mycroft looked at Greg and gave him a tight smile, and apologized for Sherlock.   
After an awkward 15 minutes in which Mycroft sat eating his food, whilst Greg tried, inconspicuously at first and then more and more obviously to communicate, the two brothers left the table, and Greg just sat there, alone, watching them walk away.   
“Sherlock! He was trying to talk to you! Stop being a stupid and rude brat!”  
“I’m not STUPID!”  
“We both agreed you were. Besides, you can’t constantly be like this.”  
“Like you care!”  
“Yes, in fact, I do. The staff here will be keeping a close eye on you, and if they don’t like what you’re doing, you are going to have to leave.”  
“Meh. I’ll find a way out.”  
“No, you won’t.”  
Sherlock glared at Mycroft, and their conversation ended when they bumped into the school principal. That classic bald fat guy principal. Sherlock scowled at him and murmured  
“ ‘Scuse me” proceeding to run off towards the bathroom.   
“Sorry about that. I um.. have to go” Mycroft stammered, turned around awkwardly, and scuttled towards the bathroom, to find that idiotic brother of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments will, like always, be greatly appreciated. (We'll publish faster if you comment XD).


	4. Silence is your Loudest Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shatter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: self harm, cutting.
> 
> Sorry about the short chapter, we're trying to create more regular updates but we've been busy with school and the like.

“SHERLOCK. WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!”  
After wandering about the halls for a few minutes, Sherlock popped out from god knows where and gave him a smile.  
“And you say I’m the idiot. I was right here all along. The principal was a stupid guy, I don’t care if he hates me. Besides, mom and dad are gone, so who cares how I behave?”  
“Sherlock. I said make a GOOD impression, which is the exact opposite of what happened just now. Don’t you dare speak like mom and dad would be proud of what you are now.”  
Sherlock didn’t appear to be listening.  
Mycroft bent down, aiming towards Sherlock’s ear, and whispered something inaudible.

Sherlock stood frozen with his eyes tightly shut. He clamped his hands over his ears, and ran away from Mycroft, who stepped forward to stop him, but then simply stared, filled with instant regret for erupting. The next few days passed in a drunken stupor. Sherlock sat through classes quiet and glassy eyed, not paying attention to class, constantly avoiding eye contact with everything and everyone, Mycroft torn between showing his care for his younger brother and ignoring him, aside from not wanting admit he was to blame, he was unsure which option was more beneficial. 

When school was over, Sherlock would straight from the door of their shared room to the bathroom and lock the door, and in the mornings Mycroft would arrive in class to find Sherlock already sitting at his desk, head resting in his folded arms on the desk.

After days of this kind of behaviour, Mycroft was engulfed with pangs of conscience. Sherlock was isolating himself even more than usual, and it was his fault. In the days that followed, Mycroft constantly tried to get Sherlock to talk to him, but the younger boy blatantly ignored him. Sherlock, however, did speak to Anderson and Greg when approached, but they soon stayed out of his way, as every word out of Sherlock’s mouth was a carefully calculated attempt to insult.

Time passed like the dripping of the tap in the bathroom Sherlock locked himself in, slowly, steadily, crawling. Sherlock was drifting further and further away, shying away from any form of human contact, not even bothering to insult Anderson when he directed questions at him. 

Mycroft stared at the ceiling of the bedroom, wondering how on earth things became like this. The shadows of the furniture in the room flickered around as lightning flashed outside, and Mycroft stood up, determined that he would get Sherlock to talk to him. He walked towards the door of the bathroom, and raised his fist to knock when he heard quiet sobbing. Sherlock never cried. No matter what happened, Sherlock would just keep it in. Sherlock never made time for himself. Mycroft slowly brought his fist back down, and instead of knocking, he grabbed the closest piece of paper, scribbled something on it, and slipped it under the door.  
The sobbing ceased with a few hiccups.  
Mycroft lay down sideways at the foot of the door, looking through the gap at the young boy lying to the other side of the door staring at the ceiling. He looked so much older than he had been only months ago, he now wore an expression that should not be seen on the face of any four year old, no matter how gifted. The silence engulfed them.  
“Sherlock?”  
He turned, and at the sight of his brother, Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears again. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand but was unable to stop himself from crying, and ended up sobbing, tears running down his face.  
“W- why?”  
“I- I have nothing to say. I’m sorry, Sherlock.” He paused. “Do not forgive me.”  
The younger boy continued to sob, for the first time, Mycroft looked around at the rest of the bathroom, and he could see what Sherlock was lying in. It was a mess. Soaked paper was littered all across the floor, and Mycroft felt his heart drop and regret overwhelmed him.  
“Sherlock...”  
Silence.  
“Don’t do this do yourself.”  
Sherlock didn’t respond. He simply stared, not quite at anything.  
“Sherlock...?”  
and Mycroft placed his hand in the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor, his fingertips extending towards Sherlock. There was no response.  
Mycroft then tried the doorknob once more, lifting his arm up to try rotating it. Perhaps, this time, there would be a different outcome. It rattled but did not budge, like always.

Sherlock had turned away from the door.  
“Sherlock, I want you to… can you… could you promise me something?”  
“Sherlock...Please don’t do this.”


	5. Happy Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of things happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for no updates for a really long time. Sorry for the grammatical errors because of no editing. Please say things to us.

“Mycroft, please see me at the end of class.”

As Mycroft walked into the classroom, the science teacher addressed Mycroft with a tone of slight boredom, his bald head reflecting the light from the ceiling. After Mycroft had been bumped from class to class, they had finally sent him to a teacher who had taken to just handing Mycroft science textbooks and asking him to read throughout the lessons, and Mycroft would just sit at the back of the classroom, occasionally peering over the top of his textbook to observe the way in which the teacher tried to get the students to absorb more information like trying to mop up spills of liquid with already water-logged sponges.

 

At the end of the lesson, Mycroft approached the science teacher cautiously as the other students filtered out of the classroom.

“Mycroft, there’s going to be an inter-school science competition next week, and I’d like you to take part.”

“Oh.” When his English teacher had asked him to wait behind at the end of class, it had been to deliver a lecture about the importance of humility. This was not something he had expected in the least- all of the teachers simply thought of him as insolent, and he did behave the most ridiculously in science class during practicals, well, because of all the interesting apparatus around.

 

Then again, he realised, it was also because this science teacher had never told him off.

“I think it’d be good for you. Is it okay if I sign you up?”

“Sure.”

 

*

 

Mycroft peered around the corner and walked, quickly and the rhythmic sound of his shoes contacting the ground travelled through the halls. All he needed to do was act like he knew what he was doing. He quickly glanced behind him, and pushed open the door. Books. Books everywhere. Mycroft could barely contain himself, the chosen student indeed was the child of a rich businessman, and did indeed have a range of spectacular books. The books in the library were appalling, as they were all donated to the school by students who had graduated, each even mildly interesting one one a torn and tattered paperback with so many coffee stains that barely half the words were legible, and the rest with titles like: “How to be a Good Student” and  “Studying for Exams Made Simple”. He quickly skimmed the titles of all the books stuffed onto a bookshelf too small. He picked a few titles, and stuffed them into his rucksack, hoping that the bulge wasn’t too obvious. Mycroft walked out of the classroom, quickening his pace, even though he knew that he wouldn’t be running into any students.

 

Mycroft tapped softly on the door, and grabbed one of the books from his rucksack.

 

Every day was a surprise for Sherlock. He never knew what book Mycroft would be passing to him, some days it was science fiction so improbable but yet so creatively imagined it was hilarious, some days it was those classics that described people’s lives in agonising detail, sometimes young adult fictional dystopias, sometimes poetry. Even though he could finish each one in an unbearably short amount of time, Sherlock reread each book several times, inking the words into his mind. The empty library in Sherlock’s mind place was slowly filled with books, and the dark corner in his palace started to disappear, the spaces between the lines becoming his refuge. Mycroft always seemed to know exactly what Sherlock needed on each particular day.

 

The door clicked open before Mycroft could slide the book in.

 

*

“Mycroft, baldy’s asking for you in his office.” The door slammed behind Greg as he strode into the room.

“Crap!” Mycroft dropped the test tube he had been holding, and it shattered on the floor, and steam began to rise from the clear liquid.

“He wants to see you in his office now. He looked pretty pissed off…. Mycroft, what the hell is that? That isn’t water?”

“Just leave it, it’ll be fine until I get back.”

 

His science teacher swiveled around on his chair to face Mycroft, looking up at him expectantly.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you worked out why you’re here?”

“No sir.” Had Mycroft been caught stealing books? Impossible, he was certain no one had ever seen him take a book, or carry one.

“I’m surprised you haven’t. You seem to have a strange aptitude for knowing things you really shouldn’t.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll have you know that you won the final round of that science competition. Well done, it contained really quite complicated questions.”

“Thank you, sir.” Mycroft was unable to keep a straight face, and he smiled softly. The questions, indeed, had been fairly challenging, even for him. He won. Absolutely brilliant. He had been hoping to win at the beginning, but-

“There is, Mycroft, a small cash prize, and the school wanted to hold it for you, but I believe it should be yours. I trust that you might hold it better than the adults in this school might.”

 

*

 

“Happy Birthday, Sherlock!”

“Wha- What?” Sherlock blinked at the three older boys standing around the ugliest cake he had ever seen.

“It’s your birthday!”

The cake was disgusting, covered with pink frosting, tilting to one side, the candle on top of it dripping wax everywhere, and the older boys stood behind it, all grinning at him.

“Oh. It is?”

“..yeah.”

“We got you a cake!”

“Well, we sort of tried.”

“The cake’s here, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but-”

Mycroft had walked over to Sherlock and picked him up, swung him around and carried him over to stand on a chair behind the cake.

 

“Blow the candle out, little brother, lest it melts all over the cake.”

Sherlock blew the candle out with a tiny puff and the smoke wafted slightly from left to right, and the melting wax dripped once more and stopped.

 

After the boys had laughed, played, and stuffed themselves full of cake, Phillip nudged Mycroft gently. “Remember the gift?”

“Oh yeah. Sherlock, I’ve got something for you.”


	6. Wooden notes

Chapter 6: 

A sound that sounded surprisingly like an owl being tortured screamed it’s way through the dorm, and Mycroft felt like his ears were about to explode.   
“Goddamnit, Sherlock, can you please do this tomorrow morning?”

Sherlock had apparently learnt how to make yet another disgusting screech with his new birthday gift, but Mycroft had to admit that the sounds were, although displeasing, immensely creative and certainly had the musical effect Sherlock was most certainly aiming for, namely to annoy Mycroft. Besides, under normal circumstances, both Greg and Phillip seemed to prefer the ear wrenching sounds coming from the instrument to the sounds that came from Sherlock’s mouth, in any case.

Mycroft attempted to cover out all some of the sounds with his left hand in his left ear, whilst he scribbled answers in Latin on his worksheet, which was, to say the least, worth investigating as a cure for insomnia. He appeared to be caught in a ferocious battle between his ears to keep him awake and…

*

Mycroft lifted his head slowly, resting his elbows on the table and covering his face with his hands and rubbing his eyes, before looking up slowly and then standing up sleepily from his chair.  
“Sherlock, is that you?”  
He had been awoken by the sensation of something having touched the back of his neck, spreading around to his cheeks and sinking down his spine, slowly, and had forgotten for a moment everything. 

He blinked again, the realization of everything that had happened coming over him.  
“Sherlock... Sherlock!”  
A soft thud sounded as Mycroft made his way around the corner, met with a messy-haired Sherlock, kneeling on the floor, a violin bow balanced precariously on his knees and pulling a shoulder-rest off of his violin with unnecessary force.  
“Was that you playing?”   
Sherlock slumped his shoulders in a sigh, and turned his head to look at Mycroft, disapproval written all over his face.   
“It.. sounded..good!” Sherlock turned his head down towards the violin, away from Mycroft, placing the violin down in the case, taking the bow from his knees and starting to loosen the bow hair. “I can’t deal with your mockery right now, Myc.”

Mycroft knelt beside his younger brother, pushing his hair out of the way. Sherlock looked up slowly, and tears streaked down his face.  
“You.. remember?”  
“Yes.” the words came out as barely a whisper.   
Of course he did. Didn’t Mycroft remember things long before he was the age Sherlock was then? Why had he assumed his younger brother was any different, knowing he was probably just as bright as himself, and maybe even more so?  
“Hey... hey.” Mycroft wiped away the tears. “Play it for me.”  
So little Sherlock obliged, but the rise and fall of each and every note Sherlock pulled from the carved instrument did not belong to him. They belonged to Father. The notes crescendoed, and Mycroft felt a growing sense of unease, and Sherlock stopped playing. 

They both turned their heads as they heard footsteps coming from where Mycroft had walked in.  
“Wuzzgoingon?” asked a squinty-eyed Greg.  
“Apparently, Sherlock can play.”  
“Oh.”  
*  
“Phillip, where on earth is Sherlock?”  
“How the hell should I know?”  
“You were-” He was interrupted by the sound of the door opening, and Greg’s face appeared in the doorway.   
“Sherlock’s on the roof of the science block.”  
“What?” The other two boys asked in unison, incredulous.  
In an instant, all three boys were running up the stairs.

“Sherlock, what the hell? You can’t play the violin on a rooftop.”  
“What exactly is it you think I’m doing right now?”  
Albeit being much taller now, the boy looked much the same as he had three years ago, his dark hair still curled and unruly, eyes still containing the same piercing, confident quality, and god knows he was just as stubborn as he used to be.  
“Sherlock, listen to me. I need to speak to you.”  
“Sherlock.”  
He stopped playing.  
“I know, Mycroft. I know the school won’t keep us any more, and the government’s asked you to go with them, and I thought you weren’t going to go, but now I know you are!”  
A silence.  
“You are going! You are! You are! Look! You don’t even have anything to say!”  
Mycroft stared at him, opening and closing his mouth, much like a goldfish. Sherlock had never rendered him silent before. No one had ever left Mycroft with nothing to say.  
“I don’t need you to take care of me! I can take care of myself! I can- Greg can watch me!” He glanced at the aforementioned boy, before storming past all three of them as they watched him in silence. As he left, Mycroft’s gaze shifted to Gregory, and the younger boy apologetically averted his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short ending chapters. Really just wrapping up a story line that needs to be finished, sorry. Might be carried on at a later time, but not for now: just another of those things that thirteen, fourteen year olds just give up on.

**Author's Note:**

> Our first fanfiction! Tell us what you think and what you would like to see in future. Feedback is always appreciated, thanks for reading!


End file.
